Chapter Text
Aberdeen was a booming little town nestled on the edge of a long, flat lake that stretched out southwards from the road, and led out into the foothills away from the mountains that surrounded it to the north, east, and west. The hilly peaks shortened the day so it seemed there was always the pretty sight of a sunrise or sunset to be looking at as the sun dyed the sky over the mountains various shades of pink and orange and folks below dropped shells into their rifles. Every time the sky grew dark, the hills would fill with the song of wolves, ready to start picking off what little livestock Aberdeen could support, but in the settler’s eyes, every chicken lost was a pelt gained.
A surprising amount of money flowed through this shabby little town, but it had nothing to do with either the livestock or the fur trade. The town was nestled on the eastern side of the mouth of a river that came down from the mountains. Just on the other side, over a wide wooden bridge, lay the gold quarry. Great walls were chiseled into the mountainside, chugging out pounds upon pounds of gold nuggets by the minute. It was a strange conglomeration of mountain folk here to seek their fortunes and wealthy shareholders here to keep them in their place.
It was a kind, sunny, temperate spring day when the horses came prancing in, stepping high like show ponies, and carrying upon their backs the very kings of the west themselves. Hosea and Dutch trotted along in front, Hosea’s noble old steed Shamrock keeping steady pace with Dutch’s shiny, proud little arabian. And behind them, Arthur and John tried to keep their heads straight. Arthur, on the back of an irritable Boethia, doing his best not to laugh as he steered her into Old Boy’s heels, and John, doing his best to ignore him until Big Boy finally had enough and let out a testy whinny. The clydesdale’s step haltered briefly so he could whip his head around to nip the air at Arthur, and damn him, he couldn’t help the laugh as the stallion stamped his feet, imploring John to do something.
His so-called brother, ten years his junior, finally yanked the reins to pull his horse to a halt and broke his temper.
“God damn it, Arthur, stop irritatin’ him!”
Arthur didn’t miss the squint he got from over Hosea’s shoulder, but ignored it all the same, and laughed.
“What? Ain’t my fault that horse don’t like you,” he pointed out, just as Boethiah flicked her ears back and tossed her head. The disgruntled snort told him she wasn’t too happy with him, either.
“Quit lyin!”
“I ain’t lyin. Look at his nose flarin’, poor beast has to smell you all the damn day.”
“Arthur . ” It was Dutch that spoke up, waggling a finger behind him. If they weren’t on horseback, Arthur knew that damn finger would be right in his face, shaking like Dutch was scolding a dog. “Leave the boy alone. Twenty-three years old, and I’m still waitin for you to quit actin’ like a fool. And John, watch your language. You ain’t old enough to be cursin like that.”
“Old enough to kill somebody, but I ain’t old enough to curse?” John pointed out grimly.
“You ain’t old enough to do either,” Hosea snapped. “How old did you say you were? Eleven?”
“Twelve,” he corrected, pulling Big Boy’s reins to keep him steady as they descended a hill. Aberdeen was visible below them through the trees, a strange oxymoron with its tidy, imposing log cabins dripping with wealth and bustling with activity.
“Aw, I was just pullin’ your leg, kid, don’t take it to heart,” Arthur said, shining him a cheeky grin. John’s expression softened somewhat, but not much.
“My name ain’t kid.”
Boethiah seemed to share the feeling, appeased, but not happy, as she fell back in step along side Big Boy. They rode into town, and for once, they didn’t stand out as a bunch of high-rollers striding into a country bumpkin town. They were right at home here among the ritzy mining companies and bright-eyed outdoorsmen alike, so no real caution need be taken. And either way, they weren’t there to rob people. Not really, anyway. Dutch and Hosea couldn’t possibly turn their noses up to the abundant idiots sitting on nests of gold that was Aberdeen, but mostly, they were just stopping in. It would be an easy grab to teach John the ropes while they rested up from the long hike out of that godforsaken city further North, Burley, and Arthur would be able to stop in to see Eliza.
He was nervous. He always was when he rode into Aberdeen to stay with them, but he was certain it was the nature of any man to feel unkempt and imperfect next to a pretty little thing like that. His initial impression when he’d gotten that letter from her, telling of a child on the way, was that he should stay far, far away. God knew what kind of blood could rub off of a man’s hands onto his son. But that parchment had been stained in places by teardrops, often smudging out ink where she had asked- begged him not to leave her a dishonored woman alone with a child. Her father had died in a mining incident when she was little, leaving her mother alone to support her on that kind of night work, and in the end, Arthur could not find it within himself to damn her to the same fate.
Luckily, she had been very understanding that he couldn’t always be around. Not happy about it, but understanding in the least, and those few years that went by had seen a lot of post between them. Arthur sent what money he could, thirty dollars in a bad month, nearly ninety in a good one, to keep them fed and clothed while he was away.
They pulled to a halt in front of the inn, the largest building in town besides the mining office, so that Dutch could go and spin them a pretty lie to cover them while they sniffed about. He shouldn’t be too long. They never really needed to lie that low in Aberdeen. The only law here was that of the mining company, and they didn’t care a lick what you did so long as their funds were untouched.
Arthur waited outside with John and Hosea in silence. He figured he’d light a cigar while they waited, but as soon as he had it settled on his lip, he remembered he’d given all his matches to John. The kid wasn’t destructive by any means, but he sure did like the look of fire. Or something like that, anyway. He always said it wasn’t something he could explain, and even if he tried and did it well, Arthur was certain he still wouldn’t understand it.
He pulled it away from his mouth, but must have looked pitiful enough to break his old man’s heart, because next to him, Hosea struck a match on his boot, and held it up for him.
“Thanks, old man,” he grinned, holding the end of the cigar to the flame and puffing it a few times to get the embers even. Hosea shook the flame out, looking scandalized.
“Old man is it, now?” he asked, holding a hand to his breast dramatically. “Arthur, you wound me.”
“You goin’ to see that Isabel?” John butted in, ruining Arthur’s chance at an apology.
“It’s Eliza,” he replied around the smoke. “And yes.”
“You gonna bring her somethin’?” Hosea gave him those big, knowing eyes, like when you shine a light out at night and see the critters looking back at you from the brush.
Arthur removed the cigar and let it burn a while, suddenly concerned.
“... Should I?” he contemplated. “I already give her money…”
“And I thought you were a hopeless romantic,” Hosea scoffed.
"Hopeless, yes. Romantic, no," John said, smirking.
"Well what should I bring her, then?" Arthur asked, shrugging incredulously.
"A necklace!" Hosea practically cried. "Flowers! Something that'll make her forget you haven't bathed in a week."
Arthur's eyes suddenly grew wide as he realized Hosea was right. Sure he'd scrubbed grime off his face once or twice, but river water was hardly a replacement for a proper bath. Dutch would be wrapping up soon, and he probably wouldn’t mind Arthur dipping out early, so long as he didn’t need him for anything. He shook his head and tried not to worry himself too much. He couldn't smell that bad, right? “I ain’t that big a sucker.”
“Oh, yes you are, don’t think you can lie to me, Arthur. I see clean through it.”
John piped up helpfully. “I think I saw some roses in that one house’s yard. Y’know, the big green one on the way in.”
Arthur paused, one foot in the stirrup, to look back at them. He really shouldn’t entertain those kinds of ideas of love and family and romance and… well, flowers. But damn if he couldn’t imagine that pretty little smile when he showed up, covered in grime with a bundle of roses in his hand.
“Alright,” he said finally. “Thank you, John.”
He lifted himself into the saddle with ease, though admittedly, his heart was pounding away in his chest like a man behind bars. Dutch came out just in time to see him kick his spurs, and he waved to him.
“Sorry, Dutch! I got a social call.”
He caught a glimpse of the man shaking his head at him with a knowing smirk, just before he rounded the corner and lost sight of them.
The little shack of a house was settled just by the waterside. The wood was half-rotted and sunken into the mud, but the outside was decorated with little cross-stitchings and patches of wild indigo and false garlic swamped the porch step. There was a fence, but only around half of the property. Most of it had given way to the pass of time.
He saw little Isaac before Eliza. The boy was in the yard, chucking rocks into a bucket that was set on the fence.
“Hey, boy!” Arthur called, hopping off his mare and practically breaking down the gate. Something real mean in his chest laid down and showed it belly at the sight of his son, and despite himself, he smirked as the boy shone him that crooked, almost-toothless grin.
“Paw!”
Arthur laughed as the boy dropped his stone and ran for him, opening his arms, because if Isaac wanted to be picked up, there wasn’t any stopping him. He caught the kid mid-flight and hoisted him onto a shoulder with a grunt. Arthur’d only been gone six months or so, but the kid grew like it was going out of style. He’d gone from knee-height to almost hip-height in just that short of time. Arthur wasn’t looking forward to the day he had to look up to wag a finger at him.
“Where’s your momma, Isaac?”
“She’s inside, makin’ stew.”
“Is it good stew?” Arthur asked, taking it slow up the steps so Isaac could duck beneath the awning.
“No.”
Arthur spluttered out a laugh, trying dearly to choke it down before opening the door.
“Don’t you tell her that, you hear? Else we’ll both get our hides tanned.”
The door swung open to see Eliza tamping smoke out of a pot. Isaac had the right of it, apparently, but Arthur wasn’t going to turn down a good pot of stew just because of a few char marks. Compared all those “fire-roasted” pheasants Hosea forced down his throat, Eliza might as well be a world-renowned sous chef. She startled at the bump of the door against the wall, but clutched her hands over her heart at the sight of Arthur.
Eliza Miller was a dainty little woman of plump build. She had a blockish, heart-shaped face and a button nose, and curly locks of dark golden-brown that hung down to her shoulders. Her eyes were dark, but soulful set in dusky skin. She was a mixed lady, far as either of them knew. Half indian, she said, but he had never heard of her tribe. Shoshone, she called it. If Arthur could safely make the comparison, he’d say she reminded him of a barn owl, all soft white down and big, black eyes.
“Arthur!” Her voice was a meek, soft kind of thing. High-pitched, but hoarse from the crowds at the saloon. Her dark brown eyes fell to the bundle of tattered roses in his hand, and those ears that poked out from her hair turned red.
“Oh, you dog,” she chuckled. “Are those from Old Mister Powell’s yard?”
“Don’t matter where they’re from, they’re yours now,” he pointed out, holding them to her. Eliza laughed, covering her grin with one hand and taking the flowers from him. He hoisted Isaac off his shoulders as she found a mug to set the flowers in. The boy hopped onto the ground, nimble as a damn chipmunk, and ran off to the other room, yelling about something he found in the woods the other day. Arthur pulled his chair out and sat down with a groan, removing his hat to scratch the grime out of his hair.
“Fleas again?” Eliza teased, and he chuckled something quiet and low.
“Yeah, well. You know Hosea, always rollin around in the mud. He gets ‘em and then there’s no hope for any of us.”
Eliza giggled, setting the tin cup of roses on the counter near the window. She’d met Hosea and Dutch, and because she didn’t know any better, she thought them two very charming gentlemen.
“Where’d Isaac run off to?”
“Said he wanted to show me somethin’.”
“Oh!” Eliza said, the brightness in her eyes telling him she already knew what it was. Just as she’d said it, the kid was trampeding back into the kitchen, cupping in his hands… a leaf.
“Whatcha got there?” Arthur asked, cocking an amused eyebrow at him. “That a leaf?”
“It’s a clover!” Isaac announced, holding it up to him. It was crumpled and dry, laying in his palm like an abused dog, begging to be released. “It’s got four leaves on it. Mister Astor says that means it’s lucky.”
“Course that old cook thinks leaves give ya luck,” Arthur grumbled over his shoulder to Eliza, who swatted him over the head with a dry rag. He laughed mischievously, and then looked back to Isaac.
“Well that’s just fine,” he drawled. “Keep it in your pocket. That way you can make it outta damn near any situation.”
“Uh-uh.”
The response surprised him, until he felt the boy’s hand fall into his own. He looked down to see the crumpled little thing sitting in the palm of his glove.
“Mama says you do a lotta dangerous stuff. I want you to have it so you don’t ever get hurt.”
Arthur held the little charm in his hand, thumbing it gently so it wouldn’t break. He looked back up with a slackjaw grin, and with his spare hand, he rustled the boy’s hair.
“Sure.”
Evening came faster than he would have wished, but no sooner than he expected it, casting the last of its light on the wall behind him through the west-facing window. Isaac was damn near falling asleep in his momma’s rocking chair, his golden-brown eyes drifting shut against the light, leaving Eliza and Arthur more or less alone. They sat at the table, their chairs turned to one another in the darkening kitchen. Arthur had already lit a lantern so they wouldn’t have to sit in pitch black.
“He’s such a good kid,” he mused, resting his elbow on the table. “How old’s he now? Four?”
Eliza nodded her head as it was propped up in one hand.
“He’ll be five this winter.”
“He behave while I’m gone?”
“Well enough. But he misses you.” Eliza’s hand fell from her face onto the table, resting a few inches away from Arthur’s. “I do too, if I’m telling the truth.”
Arthur felt something painful, but still warm and fuzzy, well up in his chest. He tipped his head down in a kind of silent apology, but Eliza knew what he was. Knew he couldn’t just drop everything he was for something he may never be.
“I’m sorry, Lize. You know I can’t just up and leave Dutch… Someday, though we’re gonna get a bunch of land to ourselves, somewhere out west. Somewhere free. And you better bet I’m coming back for you and the boy.”
Eliza sniffed a dry laugh through her nose and shook her head.
“You got pretty dreams, Arthur Morgan,” She hummed, turning her gaze to the floorboards as if they were suddenly very interesting. Arthur couldn’t think of anything to say to reassure her, but he grabbed her hand and squeezed it gently. She looked up at him with a wistful, but realistic kind of look.
Mary had been one hell of a dream, some time ago. But that’s all she was. A dream. Something pretty, waving at him from the other side of a set of prison bars. He didn’t want anything to do with that high-class life, and she would never get comfortable roughing it out in the wilds like that. Nor could she tolerate him leaving her alone so often.
Eliza, meanwhile, was so real it hurt. The night he’d met her, she had been chasing a fellow down the stairs in the saloon, one of her shoes in hand. The man had insulted her, some way, somehow, and she had sent him running for the door with his tail between his legs. Arthur had only caught the end of it, but had the grace- or the gall, whichever- to trip him on the way out and watch him nosedive into the dirt outside. He’d had some to drink himself, or he would have left it alone, but he never had time to regret doing it. He laughed, Eliza laughed, he bought her some drinks, and it went like most of those stories do.
When she wrote him to announce she was pregnant, and begged him for some kind of help, this is what they had worked out. It was just supposed to be his gesture of goodwill. To let her know that it was both of their mistakes, that she wasn’t alone, and they would pay in equal for acting a couple of fools. Give Eliza money, support the two of them, keep clothes on their backs and food in their bellies. But the first time he’d come back into town, and seen her holding a gurgling little baby of his likeness, he knew he wouldn’t just be able to turn right back around and walk away. Giving money turned into visiting, and that turned into staying with them a few days at a time, and that turned into… whatever this was.
They weren’t married. They weren’t even supposed to be sweet on each other. But Eliza was a gentle, smart little lady with a sharp tongue. It was only a matter of time before Arthur had to admit to himself that although she was an accident, she was so much more than just that.
They sat at the table for a long moment, sharing a wary kind of look. If he didn’t know any better, Arthur would say she felt the same about him.
The moment of silence was broken by the sound of galloping and horses whinnying outside past the yard.
Arthur was faster than Eliza to stand, his hand falling to his holster as he motioned her towards Isaac. A worry in her eye, she did as he asked, rousing the boy to bring him to his room. Arthur unholstered his pistol from his waist and rushed the short distance from the table to the door. His hand was slow to twist the knob and pull it open… only to let out an exasperated sigh when he recognized The Count, Shamrock, and Old Boy prancing about, irritated with how the boys had rushed them down here just to stop so abruptly. Dutch and John were cackling like a couple of jackals, while Hosea at least tried to act like he had some shame.
Arthur kicked the door the rest of the way out, turning his head to call Eliza.
“It’s all good, Lize,” he yelled, sheathing his pistol. “Just Dutch.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Arthur. Didn’t mean to scare you so bad,” Dutch called, soothing The Count with a pat to the neck. It was an apology, but only technically. Dutch still had a taunting edge to his tone.
“Yeah,” he scoffed. “Whatchu want? Thought we was stayin’ a few days.”
“We were.” Hosea piped up now. He lifted his hat from his head to smooth the hair back. “But we found something more fun to do.”
“We found Colm!” John called, apparently forgetting that they were in the company of decent folk. Eliza was in the doorway behind him, eyes infinitely more tired now that her son was nice and awake, clinging to her apron. All three of the other men shot John looks, each of varying annoyance for bringing up messy business.
Arthur didn’t feel especially good about this, but he never really did about leaving Eliza alone. He turned around to cast her a woeful look, and she returned it with a brief nod. She knew what he was.
“I’ll write,” he promised.
Still, he grabbed her hand from her side and held it a moment. That way, they’d part ways with a smile.
And that they did. Arthur had a smirk on his face the whole ride out, long after the light from town had vanished behind them.
“So where exactly are we goin’?” he asked after a while over the horses’ trot.
“There’s a little gorge in the hills to the west. We heard some of Colm’s boys were causing a ruckus in Malta. Figured we’d check it out, see if we can’t be a thorn in his side,” Hosea replied.
“And there may be some cash in it for us if we manage to save these poor folks from that damn snake,” Dutch added.
“How long you suppose we’re gonna be gone?”
Arthur lifted his lantern off its hook and shielded it from the wind with his body- but he didn’t have any matches. He set it back in its spot with a grumble of irritation. He’d been so busy catching up with Eliza, he’d forgotten he needed to buy some.
“Depends on how long it takes us to find him,” said Dutch.
“Couple months, maybe.” Arthur nodded his thanks to Hosea for the actually helpful answer, and began drafting his letter to Eliza in his head. Without thinking, he began to whistle, an old song he’d heard somewhere further north, when he was real young.
Arthur hadn’t seen the bottle in Hosea’s hands until he passed it to Dutch, who took a long swig before tossing it to Arthur. He caught it mid-step, and without even looking at the bottle, poured some down for the long ride ahead.
His mistake. It burned so fierce, he had to nearly suffocate himself to stop from choking it out, and the chill tingled on his lips long after.
“What the hell’s this?” he spluttered.
“Moonshine!” Hosea replied, catching the bottle as it was flung back to him. He didn’t wait for Arthur’s response, launching straight into song, the same Arthur had been whistling.
Frog went a’courtin he did ride.
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o!
With a sword and a pistol by his side
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o!
Ki-mo, ke-mo, ki-mo-ki!
Way down yonder in a holler tree,
An owl and a bat and a bumblebee,
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o!
Arthur wasn’t a magnificent singer himself, but he whistled the part of the song that would usually be filled with the sound of banjo plucking. John knew the words, since Dutch had used them to teach him to read. To no avail, so far.
He rolled ‘till he came to his mouses door,
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o!
And there he kneeled up on the floor,
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o!
Ki-mo, ke-mo, ki-mo-ke!
Way down yonder in a holler tree,
An owl and a bat and a bumblebee,
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o!
He took Miss Mouse upon his knee,
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o!
And he said little mouse will you marry me?
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o!
Ki-mo, ke-mo, ki-mo-ke!
A way down yonder in a holler tree,
An owl and a bat and a bumblebee,
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o!
Miss mouse had suitors three or four,
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o!
And there they came right through the door,
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o!
The sky was dark now, but they had their lanterns, and the moonshine kept their faces hot against the cold air. All except John, who wasn’t old enough. He accepted his fate and wrapped a scarf over his mouth. With the drink setting in, Arthur’s lips loosened, and he broke character to join in the song.
They grabbed mister Frog and began to fight!
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o!
In the holler tree ‘twas a terrible night.
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o!
Ki-mo, ke-mo, ki-mo-ke!
A way down yonder in a holler tree,
An owl and a bat and a bumblebee,
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o!
Mister frog threw the suitors to the floor,
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o!
With his sword and his pistol, he killed all four,
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o!
Ki-mo, ke-mo, ki-mo-ke!
A way down yonder in a holler tree,
An owl and a bat and a bumblebee,
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o!
They went to the parson the very next day,
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o!
And left on their honeymoon right away,
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o!
Ki-mo, ke-mo, ki-mo-ke!
A way down yonder in a holler tree,
An owl and a bat and a bumblebee,
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o!
Now they live far off in a holler tree,
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o!
And they now have wealth and children three.
King kong kitchie kitchie ki-me-o!
They rode down the ridge with drunken smiles, even John despite his sobriety.
“Arthur, you used to sing that one all the time!” Hosea called.
“Yea,” Arthur replied, a laugh hidden somewhere in his slur. “I went off one night to find some trouble to get into. Ended up in a bar with some farm hands, gettin drunk when I was no older’n ten. Two of ‘em got in a nasty fight… both ended up moanin’ on the floor, but they never stopped singin’!”
Dutch and Hosea both broke out in laughter at that, while John threw his hands off the reins in frustration.
“How come he’s allowed to drink so young?”
“Cus we weren’t around to tan his hide yet!” Hosea replied.
They rode until sunset the next day, when the road stopped winding back and forth like a desert snake, rolling out into softer curves, and the little fur-trading town of Malta stood rigid against the evening sun. The taller, rockier foothills lay behind them in the west, imposing against the night sky. They set up camp sluggishly, every movement a struggle. John fell asleep halfway through pitching his tent, and Arthur kicking his boot didn’t do much to rouse him, so he ended up asleep on the ground using his tent and all its poles as a blanket. Arthur managed to get his upright, but did a lousy job of it. Hosea and Dutch both had put their work in, apparently used enough to this that sleep felt more like a luxury than a necessity to them.
Arthur woke up with his face in the linen, eyes snapping open at the sound of a gun cocking a few inches behind his head.
“Don’t move, cowpoke,” growled an unfamiliar voice, tinted with scot.
Arthur did as he was told. His blood was racing, but his pistol was on his holster, and his holster was out of reach. Assuming he survived this, that was not a mistake he was likely to make again.
He dared not move his head, but his eyes strained to see what was happening in camp. Dutch was sitting next to the fire pit, hands in the air and a mean look on his face. The same kind of look like man about to be hanged for something he knew was right. And nearby, Hosea was in the same position as Arthur. Lying on his back in his tent with a shotgun under his nose. John was nowhere to be seen.
Three of them to hold up the residents of the camp, while two more rode in. They dismounted and left their horses with the others, twenty odd feet away to prowl with their weapons like cats, watching their every move. Waiting for someone to reach for a gun.
“Should we take ‘em back to Colm?” one of the boys asked, his southern accent twanging. His companion cuffed him in the back of the head, supposedly for letting on who they worked for, and the boy complained at him with a long, drawn out “ oowwww. ”
“Please do,” Dutch said venomously, eyes glimmering with pride and fury.
“Well I guess we have to now, don’t we, moron?” The first Scottish one spat, and the chill in Arthur’s blood made him quiver as the gun barrel accidentally grazed his hair.
Arthur thought he saw Hosea whispering prayers just before the camp erupted in noise. Boxes on the left went barreling through the air, the O’driscolls were blown flat on their backs, and little balls of fire rained down into the grass.
Arthur’s ears weren’t ringing, they were shrieking at him. His eyes weren’t much better off, showing him two or three of everything, depending on where they focused. He struggled onto his hands and knees. Sound was slow to come back to him, and it took him a few minutes to realize that one noise was John calling out to him from afar.
“ Grab your guns! Grab ‘em!”
Even flooded with adrenaline, Arthur knew better than to try and think. Once things caught fire, you stop thinking and start doing. Usually the thing someone else who already thought of something told you to. He dove for his pistol without thought, and whipped around. He didn’t have to hear or see well to know that the O’driscoll would already be on him. His rifle was half-aimed when Arthur whipped his pistol off the ground, and in one smooth motion, planted a bullet between his eyes. One of them was running off towards the woodline. The other was raising his gun to Dutch, who was already struggling to keep one shotgun barrel out of his face.
Arthur’s vision didn’t exactly grey out, but he focused in on the two other heads that needed a bullet in them, and barely even aimed before firing two shots off. The man grappling Dutch collapsed, blood spattering his ear, while the other stumbled backwards to clutch the hole in his chest. Arthur was scrambling onto his feet already to help Hosea, but by the time he got his bearings, the older man had already driven a knife into the man’s throat. Dutch, breath barely caught yet, was already tearing the camp apart with his eyes.
“Where’s John?” he asked Arthur, as if he knew.
“The other one went off after him!” Hosea replied, wrestling to remove his knife from the O’driscoll’s neck.
“Arthur,” Dutch started, but Arthur was already spurring off, one leg in the stirrup and the other half-on the saddle. Arthur knew by the sound of hooves that Dutch was close on his heels as he broke through the treeline into the woods. He was unsheathing a rifle this time, now that he had his saddle under him, eyes peering into the woods for any sign of movement. He strained against the reigns to bring Boethiah to a whinnying stop, and she tamped the ground anxiously.
A few birds twittered as they flocked out of a nearby tree.
“John!” He called, glancing around the undergrowth. There was a gunshot nearby, and this time, Dutch took the lead, sprinting down a slope towards a stream. Branches stung him as they whipped on by, and when the nearby commotion made him dismount, he landed in a tangle of fresh thorns.
He was very quickly coming to dislike this country.
Arthur yanked himself free into the clearing by the stream just in time to catch Dutch tackling the O'driscoll off of John and into the water. Arthur stumbled over to the kid, who was already scrabbling out of the dirt, blinking bloody tears out of a swollen eye. He turned it away from Arthur with a stubborn growl, but the older man grabbed him by the back of the head and forced him to look at him.
The boy had a nasty looking black eye, and he was bleeding heavily from his mouth. Arthur would have told him to open it, make sure he hadn’t bitten off his own damn tongue, if the boy didn’t spit a tooth out on the ground before he could ask.
Without saying a word, Arthur let John go and plowed into the stream.
The water wasn’t deep, but it was fast-running. When Dutch pulled the O’driscolls head back up from under the water, his eyes rolled, probably because the tackle had taken him skull-first into the rocky river bed beneath. Unfortunately, Arthur didn’t feel any pity for him, and Dutch had the sense to let go of him to get his hand away in time. As if trying to behead him with sheer force, he got a running start in the water, and kicked the bastard’s teeth down his throat. He choked in response, drooling blood into the water. Arthur was almost convinced he’d really killed him, until he let out a half-conscious wail. That managed to make him feel some measure of pity, he supposed.
“Arthur,” Dutch said, wiping blood off his cheek with a handkerchief, “take care of this limp horse, will you?”
Arthur looked up to see his leader passing him his rifle, and he took it without hesitation. But aiming it at the moaning, pitiful sack of shit in the stream made him feel significantly less confident about pulling the trigger.
Dutch must have noticed the hesitation, because on his way back out through the woods with John in tow, he made sure not to look back.
His trigger finger twitched uncomfortably as the O’driscoll slowly came to realize there was a gun pointed in his eye, and he let out a horrified squeal, like a hog. Finally, Arthur shook his head and dropped the barrel, snarling angrily at his own damn weakness.
“Get outta here,” he shouted, flinging the gun around like it wasn’t even loaded. “I ever see you again, you’re gettin’ a flaming bottle of shine to the face, you hear me?”
The man, apparently still incapable of language, gasped his relief and scrambled up the bank, staying mostly on all-fours even after he was on level ground. Arthur sighed angrily at his decision, though he was certain either way, he would be irritated with himself. He put two fingers to his lips and whistled for Boethiah, and a couple seconds later, she came cantering through the trees, looking frantic as ever. She was a skittish thing, but loyal to a fault. She would prance and whinny and kick and toss her head at the smallest sight of danger, but in all her time, she had never once bucked Arthur, or left him for dead.
He figured that warranted some head pats. Her nose poked its way into his satchel, but all of his treats were back at camp.
Luckily, Boethiah knew he was a sucker, and it wouldn’t be long before she was getting fat off sugar cubes and wild mint. The buckskin mare started at a gallop without any input, because even if he was selfishly keeping them to himself now, she would have her share when they got wherever they were going.
The campfire that night was quieter than most. Dutch was nursing a limp leg from tackling that O’driscoll, Hosea was trying to scrub blood off of his neckerchief, and John was all but brooding while he held a cold waterskin to his eye. Arthur was the first to speak up to interrupt them licking their wounds.
"Where did you get dynamite?" he asked, addressing John. The boy looked at him with the only eye that wasn't hidden by a waterskin, looking damn proud of himself.
"Found some in Aberdeen. Thought we might make use of it."
"Coulda thrown it a little further away," Arthur pointed out. His ears worked alright, but they still ached deep in his skull from the explosion.
"Alright, well next time, you can throw the dynamite."
"Can't," Arthur said, snickering. "You got all my matches."
"You want 'em back?"
"Naw. I'll buy some more next time we're in town."
Dutch and Hosea were silent thus far, but at least Hosea seemed present for the conversation. Dutch, meanwhile, was glaring into the fire with a fierce look in his eye.
“So… we gonna get him for this?” Arthur asked.
“Oh, I will have his head on a pike for this, Arthur, don’t you doubt that,” Dutch replied, and Hosea did what John and Arthur knew better than to do- rolled his eyes at him.
A couple of months, indeed.